


I'm Calling Bullshit

by Cartadwarfwithaheartofgold (manka)



Series: Black Emporium 2020 [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Dwarf Culture & Customs, Dwarven Carta (Dragon Age), F/M, Flirting, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC, Pre-Relationship, Surface Dwarf Culture and Customs, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Varric Tethras' Chest Hair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:07:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26176192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manka/pseuds/Cartadwarfwithaheartofgold
Summary: Varric Tethras, Viscount of Kirkwall and Deshyr, finds himself surprised by a visitor who appears out of nowhere with seemingly no motive except to fluster and beguile him. He's shocked to learn he's just as dewy-eyed about at least one Paragon as the rest of his dwarven kin.
Relationships: Female Brosca/Varric Tethras, Varric Tethras/Female Warden
Series: Black Emporium 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1924909
Comments: 7
Kudos: 9
Collections: Black Emporium 2020





	I'm Calling Bullshit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [girlwondersteph](https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlwondersteph/gifts).



> Thank you to my wonderful betas and lovely friends <3 I would be crazy without you. I'd like to specifically thank: 
> 
> [Blarfkey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blarfkey/pseuds/blarfkey)  
> [LostinFantasies38](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lostinfantasies38/pseuds/Lostinfantasies38)  
> [Toshi_Nama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toshi_Nama/pseuds/Toshi_Nama)  
> [TheRareFereldanCatLord](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRareFereldanCatLord/pseuds/TheRareFereldanCatLord)  
> [Coryfirelion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coryfirelion)  
> [Tuffypelly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tuffypelly)
> 
> You all beta'd and supported me for different fics in the Exchange for me and I cannot remember who did what SO just let it be known I appreciate all of you for your love and support.

Bran slammed a leather portfolio down on the desk with a sharp crack, one reminiscent of the tutor Varric’s mother hired to teach him Orlesian in his misspent youth. It had been money wasted, and much the same way Bran’s theatrics were best treated like the Orlesian lessons - ignored.

Varric felt the human’s glower burning through his skull, but he took his time inspecting the fine print on the document in his hand. Then he waited another minute, just to allow his Seneschal to work himself into a proper froth, before he lifted his eyes.

“What can you do to make my life more difficult this evening?”

Bran ignored Varric’s flippant greeting like he usually did, launching into his list of demands. “The harbor master is complaining of an increase in rats infesting our warehouses.”

“Does he mean the rodents or raiders? Cause if it’s the raiders, that’s a cruel insult to the rodents.”

Bran continued. “The Antivan delegation is complaining that trade negotiations are being drawn out.”

Varric chuckled and looked back down at his always present, never diminishing stack of paperwork. “I’m not planning on cutting them a sweetheart trade deal just so they’ll stop kicking their heels in Kirkwall. My shithole is their shithole for the time being.”

“Which leads into complaints about your vulgarity from the Comtesse de Launcet…”

Varric almost groaned. “Must be Tuesday. My wardrobe isn’t up for discussion no matter how scandalized she is by the chest hair. Next.”

“And _finally_.” Bran was nearly vibrating with indignant rage. “The Merchant’s Guild representative accosted me in the great hall to inform me that _you_ have missed the last eight meetings.”

“Eight?” Varric perked up. “No shit. Is that a new-”

“Record?” Bran asked acidicly. “Yes. I have been informed it is.”

Varric grinned. “And I thought you came bearing bad news.”

The vein in Bran’s temple throbbed the way it always did when Varric pushed him to the end of his rope. Varric once again spared a moment to consider whether he’d be the first viscount to be assassinated by his dramatic Seneschal.

Before Bran could get properly started on his tirade, a servant poked their nose through the door. “My lords? There’s a visitor. She says it’s urgent.”

“Our schedule is full.”

Bran’s declaration didn’t deter the servant. They continued on with a glance to where Varric sat. “She… she says she won’t leave without seeing the Viscount. I said that the guards would have her removed and she… well, she laughed, messere.”

Interesting. Clearly whoever his bold, demanding visitor was, she’d never met Aveline. All it took was one look at the woman to have most people mumbling swift apologies for disturbing her routine. His inner curiosity stirred and almost demanded to be satisfied. On the other hand... this was the perfect opportunity to slip Bran and sneak down to Lowtown for a decent game of cards before the man knew where he’d gone.

“She _laughed_?” Bran’s scandalized tone sounded so much better directed towards someone that wasn’t him. Varric smothered his grin just in time to look innocent when Bran looked back down.

“Well if it means getting away from this paperwork...” Varric trailed off, starting to lever himself out of his seat.

Bran took the bait. “Stay put. I will handle this presumptuous interloper.”

Oh Bran must be furious if he was breaking out big words. Varric smirked back down at his papers, giving every appearance of remaining right where Bran left him. The human stalked away, muttering under his breath. Varric neatly signed the paper in front of him with an elaborate, joyful flourish. He could already taste cheap, watered down ale and smell overcooked cabbage. It would make a great change of pace from another evening locked in his study banging his head against the wall. Varric kicked away from the desk, stretching his arms up over his head before rubbing at his aching neck with a low grumble of dissatisfaction.

What he wouldn’t give for someone else to take a stab at the aching muscles abused in the service of fighting Kirkwall’s never ending bureaucratic nightmare. Someone with small, strong fingers, a generous figure, and a soft laugh that…

He sighed, lowering his own hand and turning to retrieve Bianca from her place behind him. If his hand lingered 0n her grip just a little regretfully… well. There wasn’t anyone there to see, and fewer people left to care.

He hadn’t even hefted his trusty lady onto his shoulder before he heard Bran’s quick stride returning. Varric’s heart sank, and not just because of Bran’s timely return. He’d been working with the blighted man long enough to know there was a certain cadence to Bran’s steps when the man was working himself up into a frothing panic. And Varric, unfortunately, could hear that rhythm starting. It _nearly_ drowned out the headache starting to build already.

Bran was barely through the threshold before he was sputtering into Varric’s exasperated features. “We’ve had no notice! No word! This is a _disaster_! There are protocols. The Merchant’s Guild…”

If the Merchant’s Guild was involved, this was going to be a proper nightmare. “Let me guess, our visitor is still refusing to leave?”

“We cannot possibly organize a dinner to show proper respect in such a short amount of time! The offense towards Orzammar-”

“Orzammar?” Varric prodded. “Maker’s breath. Who the fuck do we have visiting? A Paragon?”

The vein on Bran’s forehead looked fit to burst. “Yes!”

Varric paused, shocked into speechlessness for one of the very few times in his life. Then he chuckled, pushing past Bran.

This was _much_ too good of an opportunity to miss.

* * *

The figure at the bottom of the stairs stood with a careful, casual nonchalance and a studied air of impatience. Every inch of her, from the thick crown of fiery braids surrounding her face to the blades slung over her shoulders, spoke of authority. Somehow, he’d always pictured her _old_. Weren’t Paragons supposed to be ancient elders shaking their fingers at them from beyond the grave?

There was nothing ancient about Remi Brosca. He’d never heard about her looks, the stories focused more on the good bits like the archdemon-slaying and dashing heroics. He _had_ heard that the Queen of Orzammar was the beauty of an age, and if the figure underneath that tight leather armor was anything like her sister’s, Varric saw the appeal.

All those thoughts and observations came to a screeching halt when the Hero of Ferelden, the only living Paragon, the Queen or Orzammar’s _sister_ , turned her attention away from studying the Keep’s architecture and to looking towards his approaching steps.

She wasn’t just beautiful. She was _stunning_.

Her features were sharp with a canny intelligence, a face he’d think twice before challenging to a game of cards. Dark ink slashed over her cheeks and forehead in bold, geometric patterns common to Orzammar. The design didn’t obscure the s-shaped brand on her left cheekbone, instead it accentuated the mark like a dare.

Jewelry glimmered in the dimming light of the hallway. There was a bright gold stud in her nose, a matching diamond one above her lip where Orlesian ladies sometimes painted on a beauty mark. Rings decorated the lobes of her ears, sparkling with jewels and precious metals.

He’d heard once that the Carta in Orzammar gave their members a piercing for every kill. She had to have at least a dozen he could see and he suspected there’d be more tattoos and piercings beneath that form-fitting rogue’s garb.

Yet, the thing that drew the most attention, were the vibrant green eyes set in her pale face. They zeroed in on him like she’d grab one of those small blades at her belt and pin him to his own keep. Varric, staring at the sight before him, wasn’t sure he’d complain. He may not even beg for mercy.

“Do you keep all your guests waiting?” Her voice was low and smooth, the kind of voice that invited you to lean in closer to the sharp teeth bared by her toothy grin. “Or am I special?”

She was dangerous. She was beautiful. And Varric… well. Varric had a _type_.

“Special?” Varric echoed, dropping into a bow that would have made his dear mother proud. “As if a woman like you doesn’t know the kind of storm she causes when she shows up out of nowhere.”

Her nose wrinkled, a gesture equal parts amused and mischievous. “Your Seneschal isn’t ever gonna recover from the shock, Deshyr.”

The title sounded playful on her tongue and he could just picture her now, hiding behind her sister’s shoulder, whispering naughty statements about the Assembly into the Queen’s ear. He wondered if the infamous Rica Brosca ever cracked a smile.

“Don’t worry. This kind of drama is what Bran lives for.”

He punctuated his statement with a wink that made the lady’s shoulders lower, relaxing under his charm like a cat who’d gotten the measure of the man she approached. She laughed, a charmingly husky sound that raised the hair on the back of his neck.

“How can we help the Hero of Ferelden?” Varric asked, admiring the play of the twilight over the gold shimmering in her skin.

Remi’s features danced with merriment. “I need a place to stay.”

Varric didn’t know if that was the best thing she could have said or the absolute worst. This was starting to make his chest hair itch, but what motive could there be in her visit? Orzammar didn’t seem to care what he did, the Merchant’s Guild claimed not to care what Orzammar thought, even as they both traded goods and coin back and forth. He probably wasn’t completely popular in Ferelden, but surely King Alistair had better things to do than sic his least present Arlessa on him?

“My ridiculous Keep is at your disposal, but I’ve gotta warn you, the rooms are drafty and Bran is _annoyingly_ present at the best of times.”

Remi brought one, leather gloved hand up to her lips and tapped them thoughtfully, drawing his attention to their perfect bow shape. Her smile grew as she studied him like an interesting, exciting new mark for her to fleece.

“Maybe.” She finally declared. “But there’s a hell of a view up here.”

She quickly darted a meaningful glance at his chest before raking her eyes back up, raising a brow in challenge. Somebody, clearly, wouldn’t be lodging any complaints about his vulgar attire during her stay.

“Well, if you’ll be my guest, let me introduce myself properly.”

She laughed again, tossing her head back. “No need. What are the chances there are two flashy Deshyrs swaggerin’ around up here?”

“Pretty good.” His quip came before he could even stop himself. “Considering _you’re_ here, Mistress Brosca.”

Her cherry colored lips popped open into an expression of pleased surprise before her nose wrinkled again and she captured that plump bottom lip between her teeth to bite back the smile stretching her face into a youthful display of happiness.

“Shut your trap.” She ordered. “Before they all realize what kinda duster trash they’ve let in, right?”

In one elegant movement, she bent at the waist to retrieve a large sack from the ground, tossing it over her shoulder while managing to masterfully avoid her blades. Varric watched her move, charmed by both her energy and enthusiasm.

“Right.” He shook his head to clear his thoughts. “Come on then, Rebel.”

“Rebel?” Remi repeated, sauntering along beside him. “You know, I like that.”

He wasn’t surprised by that at all.

* * *

Varric Tethras, Viscount of Kirkwall, was having dinner with a Paragon. Bartrand would have cried tears of real, dwarven pride. Or frustration. Mostly frustration. There was no way Bartrand would have approved of his attire, his lack of beard, or the fact that instead of decent dwarven cuisine he had a human cook he’d pinched from Lowtown.

But the Paragon in question seemed as comfortable as a cat, at any rate. He’d heard she’d made herself right at home in the Keep after he escorted her to the best guest rooms he had. The servants who acted as eyes and ears reported with breathless glee that the Paragon Brosca threw her bag inside her room, ordered a bath, and then dashed off to explore.

The stories he heard after that… well. A footman swore up and down, eyes as big as dinner plates, that he’d caught sight of her scaling the shelves in the library. A sputtering guardswoman claimed to have seen her skinny dipping in his fountain, which he called bullshit on until a laundress admitted she’d needed to deliver the lady clean linen to wrap herself up in.

The cherry on top was Bran’s near-apoplectic fit when the Hero of Ferelden, naked and draped in a sheet, answered the door and told him in no uncertain terms that if he arranged a state dinner for her, she’d arrange a trade war with Orzammar _and_ a severe beating for the man in charge of organizing it. She wanted a private, cozy dinner with the Viscount and free reign over the Keep, nothing more.

Varric always considered himself eager to please a beautiful woman, but with one so delightfully tempestuous? How could he resist?

Except, if he was being honest, she was late and he was impatient. He’d opted to have dinner set out in his study instead of the opulent dining room, judging she wouldn’t be impressed by the size of his dining table. He had the small table set, a deck of cards, his best stories queued up, and a choice of wine, ale, and harder spirits for her to peruse.

The only thing he was missing was a less-than-punctual Paragon.

He brought his own glass to his lips, smoothing the silk shirt over his stomach. He waited another heartbeat. Another. Then he stood with a muted grumble, striding to his desk. Heroes could be relied on to do one thing and one thing only, really. That thing was to be completely inconsiderate of his schedule.

May as well get some work done while he waited.

His eyes roamed his cluttered desk. A stack of manuscript pages leaned precariously on one side, a ledger full of accounts on the other. Between the two were tidy, seemingly haphazard stacks of correspondence, reports, invoices, and sundry other concerns. Varric knew where everything was, but he couldn’t quite decide what to do to distract himself from the anticipation of waiting. He lifted his glass to his lips again, debating his options.

“You lookin’ for something more interesting than me?”

Varric nearly choked on his ale. The soft voice at his ear came out of nowhere, just like the woman it belonged to. He turned incredulous eyes to meet laughing ones, her plump lips curled up in a pleased little smirk.

She’d planned to get the jump on him. He didn’t know if he was impressed or irritated.

Before he could decide, he noticed what she wore, and rational thought flew temporarily right out the moment his eyes took her relaxed, casual appearance in.

She’d chosen a loose tunic, the same emerald shade as her eyes with the sleeves covered in fine gold embroidery to match the piercings she displayed so proudly. A woven belt caught it in at the waist, emphasizing the hourglass of her figure. Soft, cream colored leggings vanished into her sturdy boots.

But all of that paled in comparison to her hair.

A proper dwarven noblewoman would leave it braided, studded with shiny bits and precious stones. But Remi Brosca left her glorious blood red hair loose, the sleek waves falling to the middle of her back and around her shoulders. It softened the sharp features of her face and gave her the appearance of a woman who’d just rolled out of bed and truly wouldn’t mind being rolled right back into it.

“Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” Varric rasped.

She reached up to twine a thick strand of hair around her dextrous fingers. “Rica always said our hair could make our fortune.”

“I meant sneaking up on me.” Varric adopted a wounded look, ignoring that she’d pinned him so well. “I’m not as young as I used to be, and if I’m not here to oversee this shitshow, what’s gonna happen?”

“Humans and politics I guess.”

Remi waved it away like it meant nothing to her, spinning on her heel and sashaying away from him to the table. His eyes drifted down her figure, taking in the satchel hanging on her left shoulder and the dagger strapped to her hip.

He’d never admit his eyes traveled anywhere else. Let alone that they may have lingered.

She collapsed into the chair he’d occupied waiting for her, slinging her satchel carelessly on the ground and eyeing the meal with no small degree of excitement. “You really know how to treat a woman, don’t you? I’m starvin’.”

Varric chuckled and returned to the table, the circle of warmth and energy that drew him in was her own personal brand of magic. “Heard you worked up an appetite.”

Remi barely waited for Varric’s ass to hit the seat before she was filling up her plate with heaping servings of roasted chicken, fluffy biscuits, and an almost intimidating pile of greens. She’d barely finished before she was pressing a biscuit to her lips, eyeing him with something predatory glinting in her eyes. “I’ve been climbin’ through the blighted jungle for a year. Before that, it was the desert. Before that, the sodding deep roads, before that…”

“Been awhile since you’ve been able to set a palace into a proper uproar?”

His snarky guess made her laugh around the biscuit she crammed into her mouth. She almost choked before swallowing and tipping her head back, glorious hair spilling through the air, releasing a sound of reckless joy.

The food smelled delicious, but her voice and that laugh were more intoxicating than any of the alcohol he had. He needed to hear it again for purely professional reasons. How would he describe it later otherwise?

“Find anything worth having in the great wide outdoors?” Varric asked.

Her eyes narrowed at his curious probing, but her smile never dropped. “You won’t believe this. I’ve got a pal, Oghren? Great guy. Bit of a nugbrain, but warrior caste, y’know? Anyway, he brews his own ale. Gets it in his head to try t’ find ‘exotic’ ingredients whatever _that_ means.”

Varric winced. “Some people just can’t leave a good thing alone.”

“I know!” Remi warmed to her act, tearing off another fluffy piece of biscuit and gesturing wildly with it.

“So I say to myself, ‘Remi you need a break, let’s go keep this dense bastard outta trouble.’ He dragged me all over bleedin’ Thedas, I swear on my ancestors’ fine tits, looking for weird shit to add to his ale.”

Except, of course, he knew the former Inquisitor. Issala Adaar had a nice letter written in a scrawled hand that sounded _exactly_ like the way Remi Brosca spoke telling her the Hero of Ferelden was…

How had she said it? Sodding busy trying not to end up meeting my own damn ancestors, trying to cure the blight, find someone else to drag into this mess, _Inquisitor_. He heard it took Nightingale a full twenty minutes soothing Issala that Remi was just like that. A tiny tornado of blunt words and cheerful insults. He was delighted to find she was also one hell of a liar. It would make cards _very_ interesting later.

“You know I know this story is bullshit, right?”

Her grin brightened, dimples popping out in her cheek. “How was I ‘sposed to know how important you were in that crazy Inquisition, deshyr?”

Clearly, he wasn’t gonna get more of an answer. He should probably count his lucky stars he got a roundabout admission she’d lied through her teeth. Remi used her fork to peel a juicy bite of roasted chicken from the bone, popping it into her lips. Her eyes fluttered closed and she made a small noise of pleasure low in her throat.

A noise that was slightly less than innocent and probably being used on him like that blade at her hip to get whatever she was after.

“How’s Orzammar lately?”

“Haven’t been.” Remi admitted. “Rica writes. Guess it’s still a nest of deepstalkers, but she loves it.”

She sounded a little less convinced by the whole thing, but the warmth around her sister’s name was genuine. It hit him in a way that reminded him futilely and bitterly of Bartrand.

“The Queen is happy so the kingdom is well?”

If she noticed his wistful tone, Remi didn’t comment. Instead, her smile curled up into something softer. “Rica’s got the whole thing under control. All the deshyrs down there dance to her tune cause she’s got Bhelen and she’s got our boy, and she likes to make ‘em dance.”

“Our boy?” Varric echoed.

“Ours.” She confirmed, eyes blazing defiance. “Endrin’s a Brosca through an’ through. He’s _ours_.”

Varric wondered if Bhelen knew he was being played. Wondered if he _cared_. He was the one who risked his crown to make the casteless noblehunter his queen, after all. Varric couldn’t lie and say he didn’t see the attraction. If Rica Brosca was anything as beguiling as her sister…

“No heir to house Tethras, though.” Remi plopped her pointed chin in her hand, slammed her elbow on the table, and stared at him, lips twitching like she knew what he was going to say.

“That’s on purpose, Rebel.” Varric gestured to the room. “I’m not leaving this shit to some poor kid who drew the short straw. Hell, I thought that when I just had to worry about my Guild seat.”

Remi chuckled. “Talk about a nest of deepstalkers, right?”

Varric couldn’t help returning the shy tip of her smile, one that seemed almost vulnerable. Or, at least, as vulnerable as he thought Remi may ever be. Something inside him twisted and he leaned forward into her orbit like a man enchanted.

“Alright Rebel, I can’t figure you out.” His admission pleased her, he could tell by the sparkle in her eye. “I’m sitting here racking my mind as to what in the world could have brought you to Kirkwall and coming up empty.”

“Maybe you should ask?” Remi challenged, straightening. She looked as triumphant as a queen, and he… well, he was as dewy eyed for a Paragon as anyone else, apparently.

“Why in the Maker’s name are you here?”

She darted for the satchel she’d dropped, hauling it up onto the table in a matter that looked careless, although he noticed she didn’t so much as rattle a single dish. She flung it open and wrenched two books from inside, presenting them to him with a flourish.

They were _his_ books. Tale of the Champion and All This Shit is Weird, all banged up, the pages creased, spines broken. One of the covers had a suspicious scorch mark. He looked up from her offering, dazed. “You’re a _fan_?”

“What, you think they let me wonder around up on the surface without learnin’ to read?”

She didn’t sound insulted, but he shot her an apologetic smile anyway, reaching out to take her books. “You came all this way to get them signed?”

“I was in the neighborhood.” She stated breezily, leaning back in her chair and crossing her legs. “Course, I had to meet you. Hawke and the Inquisitor are damn lucky to have had such a fine author behind ‘em. Rica always says I could walk into any palace in Thedas and get the red carpet treatment. Thought I’d finally test it.”

“I’m honored.” He was shocked to find he meant it. “I read your biography myself. It was…”

“Boring.” She huffed, wrinkling her nose. “Genetivi is fine, for a human, but by the stone he is _dull_.”

Varric couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so enchanted by a woman. He honestly wasn’t sure he wanted to remember. “It was certainly factual.”

She groaned, tipping her head back, revealing the creamy skin of her throat. Varric made up his mind in an instant.

“Happy to sign these for you, Rebel.” His heart thudded in his chest. “But if you’re not in a hurry… always liked to hear the story from the bronto’s mouth. Who knows, maybe I can end up doing your story a bit more justice.”

She blinked once. Twice. He steeled himself for her to laugh in his face.

Instead that predatory glint returned and she leaned forward conspiratorially, lowering her voice. “Depends.”

“On…?”

“You got room here for a griffon?”

Her statement surprised a roar of laughter from him. By the time he could speak again, he noticed she was absolutely beaming. “I’m calling bullshit.”

She smirked, shaking her head.

“You sure about that?”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed! Check out some other [Black Emporium 2020](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/BlackEmporium2020) fics and art while you're out and about!
> 
> I typically write dwarves. So many dwarves. Kinda lowkey obsessed with Varric Tethras. If any of that sounds like a good time, maybe consider my Tumblr [@cartadwarfwithaheartofgold](https://cartadwarfwithaheartofgold.tumblr.com/)


End file.
